


Aphrodite took the apple (for Apollo wasn't there)

by AgapantoBlu



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, The Authority
Genre: Apollo is just That Beautiful, Crushes, Every man who lays eyes on Apollo has a sexuality crisis, Fluff and Crack, Jenny is Tired of everyone losing braincells in front of her dad, M/M, Midnighter from a corner: Suck it Wayne, Midnighter gets the cake because he married this god, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 12:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20527799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgapantoBlu/pseuds/AgapantoBlu
Summary: "Hello?," he says, like nothing is happening, like he isn't destroying every standard of beauty and self-dignity in Dick by just standing there with sunlight from the window behind him crowning him softly.[Dick, Bruce and Clark meet Apollo and fail to deal with it in a dignified manner.]





	Aphrodite took the apple (for Apollo wasn't there)

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I'm always blaming the Discord Midpollo server for these stories, but in my defence it IS mostly always their fault.
> 
> This is basically "I saw a man so beautiful I started crying" except with more words and it's all from the point of view of a few heroes at their first meeting with Apollo. Who has my Italian concept of American Southern charm because I follow the one bit somewhere in the mayhem of canon that says Apollo grew up somewhere in Kansas(?). I think I read it somewhere anyway, so now that's it. 
> 
> I might add more later, I don't know, it depends whether or not I want to research them. I have my eyes on Hal Jordan. We'll see.

Dick is not unaware of his own beauty, nor he's the type for fake humbleness. He's hot, people know it and he knows it as well, that's about how it has been since he finally cut off that unfortunate mistake of a mullet in his early twenties.

But the man that opens the door? That's an whole other realm of hot.

He's just standing there, in loose grey sweat pants and a simple slim-fit v-neck white shirt, except for the _slim_ part because "built like a brick house" would actually be an understatement in this case. The jury is forced to admit reasonable doubt on whether or not he could pass through an average door without having to tilt a bit to the side to fit his shoulders through. The outline of his muscles through the shirt and the rippling of them under the skin of his bare arms are something that maybe Tom of Finland could have drawn, just without all the leather part which is clearly M's responsibility in this household.

He has pure white hair in a messy bun on the nape, the end brushing his neck and collarbones, and a vaguely confused expression. "Hello?," he says, like nothing is happening, like he isn't destroying every standard of beauty and self-dignity in Dick by just standing there with sunlight from the window behind him crowning him softly.

Jesus Christ.

Midnighter steps forward to kiss him. "Sorry, babe," he says. "Working from home tonight."

"Okay," the god replies easily after indulging just the slightest bit in the kiss. "Not in the bedroom, though. We just had the moquette cleaned."

He had the moquette cleaned, Dick thinks, bordering on hysterics. How is this man real?

M kisses him again, and they walk inside hand in hand.

Fucking show-off.

Bruce knows of the Midnighter, of course. Dick has resorted to the man’s help more than once, and though their moral views don’t align one thing, Bruce can clench his teeth and ignore the man as long as he plays by the rules when he is in Gotham.

This is _not_ playing by the rules.

Midnighter has come to the cave via those awfully irritating _doors_ of his, and neither Tim nor Barbara have yet stopped frothing at the mouth for a chance to get their hands on such tech. Irritatingly intrusive, but a minor detail Bruce could have overlooked if only because they had been the ones to summon him for help the moment they’d realised their newest Rogue was playing around with Garden weapons.

No, the point is: he has not come alone.

Midnighter has strolled in like he owned the place and before Dick could start reprimand him another man has followed him suit.

_And Lord, what a suit_.

Bruce almost flinches at his own lascivious thought. Undisciplined. He hasn’t gotten a night off as Brucie for a while now, and the situation with Selina is rather unmentionable at the moment, but, by Alfred’s moustaches, there is no need to be this desperate.

The man is just, rationally speaking, a fine exemplar of human male in his prime.

He wears white spandex with golden decorations and Bruce has seen Superman pull off the skin-tight onesie look, true, but this is another thing completely. Nobody looks this good in _white_, especially not white-haired buff men. Not if there is justice in the universe. The braid falling on his shoulder is held together by a My Little Pony hair-tie, for fuck’s sake, and somehow he’s still by far the sexiest person in the radius of fifty miles. Sixty if Clark is not in Metropolis at this time.

Bruce can count his tendons through the suit, and his arms are as thick as the tires of the Batmobile. Hell, he could probably bench press the thing and not break a sweat. 

(He could pin _Bruce_ against—No.)

He smiles at Dick, offers his hand which engulf’s the acrobat’s almost completely. By rough estimation, he’s definitely taller than Clark, probably taller than Jason, maybe even taller Bruce’s himself, and he beams so bright he’s lighting up the place to the point it doesn’t even look like an underground cave anymore.

Bruce frowns at his own idiotically lovesick train of thoughts, but he can’t stop the feeling that it truly is lighter around here now. 

It takes him a moment to realise the man _is_ indeed shining lightly. Like a fucking sun or a star or whatever other glowing shit book writers use to overestimate the love interests character. Fuck.

The man does his round with all the kids standing between him and the owner of the place, until finally — wait, _finally_? — he stops in front of Bruce. With a smile, of course.

“Apollo,” he says, offering his hand, and Bruce is very tempted to call Diana right now and _demand _to know whether he’s the real thing because, honestly? He’s inclined to believe it. Sun God. He’s seen less coherent stuff, after all. “I’m Midnighter’s husband.”

There is absolutely no reason for the twist in his stomach, none at all. Which is why he takes the hand and shakes it briskly, no lingering, aseptic, before hurriedly turning back to his screens and his researches and his datas and his _Mission_ because this is what it’s all about, the _Mission_ and the Rogue currently terrorising his city while he’s too busy reigning in his hormones like a teenager.

(He’s going at the Hamilton’s gala tonight and scratching this _itch_ before it becomes a problem.)

He can feel the confusion in the man now at his back as well as he can hear Midnighter’s snort and Dick’s gasp. If he hears a single joke about this, he’ll get Alfred.

“Nice to have you on board, then!,” one of the girls chides, over-excitedly. Bruce knows it’s Stephanie, he recognises her, but Lord he doesn’t need to know that she finds this man attractive, not when he himself cannot stop taking notice of it. Mostly because Stephanie is loud and unashamed and she _will_ talk about this god for weeks after they’ll finally get rid of him from the cave.

Bruce will know no peace for months.

“Nice to _be_ on board, ma’am!” the man replies, all sunshine and rainbows, wow, the accent, the word, southern charms?, muscles and belly?, neck as thick as Tim’s thigh, probably? Bruce knows another man like that and he doesn’t deserve this, he did nothing quite enough outrageous. 

Jason not too subtly elbows him in the spine. 

Great. This is going to be one long fucking night.

Despite his ability to fly, Clark doesn’t get around to visit Ma’ as much as he’d like. He doesn’t get around to visit as much as _she’d_ like either, but those are standards that not even Superman could meet. 

So he might have been _slightly_ late when he took off from the Planet’s rooftop, cringing a bit for the remnants of Perry’s scolding still in his ears. Lois finished all her assignments in time so she left by plane the evening before and abandoned him to his sorry fate. Ma’ is probably sharing with her all the baby pictures and the embarrassing stories Clark usually forbids her from brining up. 

He sighs for so long he only takes another breath when he is already flying above Kansas, and the sky is darkening into sunset when he notices a dark spot at the edge of his vision, a few miles to the East.

At first, he assumes it is just some birds and pays it no mind, but then he realises… it’s too big.

He stops midair and blinks. His sight adjusts.

Two figures, not one, though the second is rather smaller than the first. More surprisingly, they are _people_. A man and a woman.

It throws him on a loop for a moment. His first thought, with the consequent shiver down his spine, is that they might be Kryptonians, survived somehow, bringing destruction once again. But they are chatting normally, of usual things; the woman —girl?, she sounds like a teenager or a lady in her early twenties— yelling for mac’n’cheese and the man arguing about its non-existent nutritional value.

The sight is so hypocritically absurd he’s left floating there for so long, just staring. 

The two either don’t notice him or couldn’t care less. They spin around and draw lazy circles in the air, laughing and bantering and gesturing wildly with their arms. The girl is in all the dark shades, brunette with black clothes, while the man is wearing a white shirt and light jeans and has long hair a blond so clear it’s almost white. They seem to be basking in the sun, at the moment.

He can almost hear Bruce’s voice in his brain spitting statistics, and strategies, and _you’re exposed, Kent! Find cover!_ Eidetic and photographic memory means the illusion is rather accurate and it makes his hands itch, as usually when _the_ Batman goes on a tangent.

Ironical how that’s exactly what distracts him one second too long.

The man spots him. Clark freezes.

Well, at least he changed in the Superman suit before taking off from Metropolis.

The man pats the girl’s head twice and in a second he’s, well—here. Clark blinks.

“Not a supervillain, I promise,” he says, like he can read his mind. He’s smiling and keeping his hands slightly raised in surrender. “We haven’t met yet, did we? I’m Apollo. I helped out Batman for a situation in Gotham a few weeks months ago?”

Oh, right! Clark remembered that. Bruce had originally sent a distress beacon to the Watchtower — well, one of his kids did, probably; Lord forbids Bruce _asks for help_ ever — and then retracted it. _Dick got a few friends on the case_, Bruce had said, voice especially stiff even through the monitors. _Midnighter and Apollo are quite enough to contain the situation._

One of the kids had bellowed a laughter in the background at the word _enough_. And then Bruce had closed the communication.

Very alien Superman had been confused by the situation. Very _human_ Clark Kent can immediately understand.

Apollo is wearing a beige turtleneck and white pants and has all his hair floating and whipping around his head with the wind. Right under the bright sun of Kansan winter, he gloats with his healthy skin, and white teeth, and bright eyes, and lashes so long he can probably feel them caress his cheeks every time he blinks. He lifts an arm to push strands out of his face and back on his head, and the sleeve tightens desperately around the muscle. Clark might or might not wish to be it, for a second.

Wow, okay, where did _that_ come from?!

He’s been silent for too long and as soon as he realises he pushes a hand out. “Superman,” he offers, and feels immediately idiotic for. Of course he’s Superman, he’s got a giant red _S_ on his chest, that's rather self-explanatory.

Apollo’s smile is so radiant it replenishes all of Clark’s reserves of sun energy. He could genuinely live off this man’s proximity and it wouldn’t be a cheesy pick-up line.

“Nice to meet you, at last,” Apollo jokes as he tilts his head a bit to the side. Lana Lang had a Border Collie when they were kids and this man resembles it terrifically.

Clark isn’t a man to feel threatened, there are enough Twitter thirst accounts to make sure that not even Lois’ most scalding reproaches of everything _too Smallville_ with Kent could take his self esteem down, but this is the first time he considers getting on the social platform just to yell into the void about how he’s straight, alright?, but damn wouldn’t he make an exception for this man.

His Ma’ would be ashamed of his shallowness right now.

“Oh, this is my daughter, Jenny.”

Clark blinks.

The girl looks even younger at close up, and much like she’d be right at ease in the brood of Bruce’s dramatic goth children. She’s wearing a leather jacket with so many studs invulnerable skin must be a requirement to hug her, and combat boots and black jeans, not at all apt to the weather. She pulls out a cigarette from a pocket somewhere — seriously, he missed that — and puts it in her mouth to lit it up. Apollo doesn’t even look at her, he just lifts his hand and pinches the thing right at the bottom, snapping it in half and eliciting a complaining “_hey!_”.

“Smoking is bad for your health,” Apollo says, with the intonation of an old argument none of the parts are ever going to budge on, but he sends Clark an apologetic look.

The girl scoffs. The way she crosses her arms in front of her chest, she resembles a lot Jason at fifteen. “So what? Papa Smurf is not _stealthy_, we’ve seen him before. Can we _go_ now? Dad’s going to be home soon.”

“Sure.” Apollo chuckles. It’s the kind of happy sound that only people so deep into their love can make, and only when thinking about the person receiving such precious feeling. “Husband’s birthday tomorrow. We’re settling the last details while he’s out.”

One half of his brain surges, curled possessively over the word _gay_, just as the other half crashes and catches fire hard on the gasoline of the word _married_. Still, he smiles. “I’m sure it will be lovely.”

“It will be gross,” the girl corrects with an eye-roll so deep Clark worries her eyes won’t return from the back of her skull. “They’re gonna try and make out whenever I turn my back on them.”

“_And_ I think that’s quite enough! Say hi to Superman - _hi Superman_ \- and we’re going. Bye!”

Superman watches the man all but pick the girl up under his arm and speed away. He flies fast and is gone in half a second, but Clark’s vision is perfect and his memory only needs a fraction of an instant to catalogue all details in front of him.

He’s not going to lie, he’d let _that ass_ sit on his face. A groan escapes his lips as soon as the thought is done lodging itself in the frontal lobe of his brain, settled and quite determined not to leave anytime soon.

Great, he’s going to have to have a talk with Lois as soon as he gets to Smallville.

**Author's Note:**

> On Tumblr @agapantoblu.


End file.
